THE

GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE,

FEBRUARY 1885.

THE UNFORESEEN.

BY ALICE O'HANLON.

CHAPTER V.

"I WILL BE GUIDED BY YOUR ADVICE."

UEBEC, it has been said, "presents the anomaly of a mediæval

Q European city in the midst of an American landscape."

Built on a lofty promontory, in an angle formed by the juncture of the rivers St. Lawrence and St. Charles, it certainly is a very quaint as well as a very conspicuous object. With its metal roofs and spires glittering in the sun, its massive fortifications and battlements surrounding the "Upper Town," its suburbs clustering around beneath grim cliffs or speading up the terraced slopes, and its long line of busy wharfs, the city presents, also, a very beautiful object. And in its environing scenery it is no less fortunate than in the maritime strength of its position. Rivers and lakes, hills and woods, fertile plains and distant mountains, clear air and blue skies blend together in the seasons of summer and autumn to form a picture of almost idyllic beauty.

More French than Montreal, or, indeed, than any other of the chief Canadian towns, this fact comes into prominence everywhere in the quaint old city. In the names of the streets and the signboards over the shops there is a curious admixture of the two languages. Behind the counter English goods are sold to you by a Frenchman for English money. The vehicles are of a French make; the dress, the talk, and the physiognomies of the lower orders proclaim their Gallic origin. Unfortunately the two races thus living side by side do not blend readily. Wealthier and more energetic, the English rise like oil to the surface of society. Their dwellings, too, like themselves, dominate those of their less successful neighbours. They VOL. CCLVIII. NO. 1850.

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are situated, together with the principal shops, in what is termed the "Upper Town," within the enclosure of the ramparts.

For the most part, these houses (belonging to rich bankers and well-to-do merchants) are not, or at least they were not forty years ago, very pretentious in style, and comfort rather than show was considered in their interior appointments. At the date of our story, one of these houses in the "Upper Town," about the largest and most elegantly furnished of them all, belonged to a Mr. Estcourt, an extensive exporter of timber. Mr. Estcourt was likewise partner in a small shipbuilding concern on the Thames, and was reputed to be a man of great wealth. He had lost his wife some five years ago, and the family now consisted of himself and an only daughter, twenty-one years of age.

About a fortnight subsequently to the events of the last chapter, Miss Claudia Estcourt and a young lady two years her junior were alone together in the upper-story drawing-room of her father's house. It was the afternoon of a warm, bright day, but an awning, stretched from the three windows of the room across a balcony that ran outside, threw it into cool and pleasant shadow. Neither of the girls was occupied with any feminine employment. No books or work littered the room, nor for a long time had either of them uttered a syllable. A glance, however, would have sufficed to show that this silence was not the result of apathy. Both girls, it was evident, were under the stress of excitement, and of excitement of no common nature.

Seated on a low chair, her hands clasped together, and her elbows resting on her knee as she leaned forward, one of them was gazing in mute distress at the other. She was rather a plain girl this-with a snub nose, freckled skin, and hazel eyes. Nevertheless her face was an interesting one, and, better still, it was a lovable one. A true index to her nature, it was full of unaffected kindness and frank simplicity.

The other girl was beautiful, with that kind of beauty which is perhaps the most fascinating of all, because it has about it a pathetic element. Tall and slim in figure, she had a delicate, ethereal-looking face, and a complexion of peculiar purity. Her eyes were large, grey in colour, and shaded by long lashes. Their expression was wistful, and, in fact, the whole cast of the countenance was, as a rule, thoughtful, even pensive. There were times, however, when Claudia Estcourt-for this girl was she-would break forth into flashes of sparkling gaiety. And at such times, the winsome smile, which played like summer sunshine over her usually grave features,

had the effect of rendering her perfectly irresistible, not only to the opposite sex, but to her own.

At the present moment, however, although plainly under the influence of a feverish excitement, that excitement was as plainly not the exhilaration of mirth, but something far otherwise.

Dressed in a pale-blue robe of some soft clinging material, which suited her fragile beauty to perfection, and which swept after her in a long train, Claudia was pacing the room to and fro with irregular, uncertain steps.

Suddenly, pausing before a timepiece, she turned to her companion and exclaimed:

"Oh, Ella, he will be here in half an hour! What am I to do? What am I to do?"

"Dear Claudia," answered the other girl (whose concern was purely sympathetic, not personal), "you know we have settled that question. You know very well what you have to do-just to tell the simple truth."

"The simple truth!" echoed Claudia, impatiently. "Ah, yes, it is easy enough for you to talk, Ella. But you don't know Douglas Awdry as I do. You can't understand what it will look like to him— that simple truth,' as you call it!"

"Yes, dear, I can understand. I believe that it will be a shock to him, a very great shock. We have both recognised that; but

"

"It's no use! I couldn't do it! The longer I think of it the more impossible it seems," broke in Claudia. "Oh, Ella!"—she dropped on her knees by her friend's side-" why should I tell him at all? Why should we not bury the past-blot it out as though it had never been? I have had so much trouble, I must have a little happiness now!" she went on eagerly-her large eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I love him so, Ella; and I know-I know that if I tell him this horrible thing it will be all over between us!"

"Claudia, are we to go over the whole argument again ?" Ella Thorne put this question in a firm voice, whilst she laid, also, a resolute grasp on her companion's shoulder. "I do not believe that the result would be what you say. Captain Awdry has loved you so long and so ardently, that his devotion will stand this test. But even if it were not so-even supposing that——”

"Don't suppose it, Ella! Now that I am free, I could not bear -I really could not bear to lose him."

"But, Claudia, you cannot marry him with your secret untold. I thought that was quite, quite decided? You know that it would be at the risk of your whole future happiness. You know that it

would be to weight yourself with a burden of deception far heavier to bear than it has been in the past, because the consequences of detection would be so infinitely more serious. Oh, Claudia, how can you still waver and hesitate! Apart from the wrong to him, concealment would be the supremest folly on your own account."

"Yes, I know-I know you are right, Ella. But I am such a coward," admitted Claudia, feebly. "And I am so afraid of losing his affection."

"You will not lose it, I feel sure," Ella answered.

"But better

risk doing so now a thousand times than after marriage. But we have gone over all this before. Claudia darling, I am so sorry for

you, but you must be brave, you must be candid."

"If I could only keep back your share in it, the confession would be easier," faltered Claudia. "I mean, that if I could assure him that not a soul but myself knew the truth, it would be less annoying to him, I believe."

"Possibly it might. But you cannot keep that back, because you must tell him the whole story, just as it happened. Ah! I wish you could do away with my share in it. I feel bitterly ashamed and mad with myself when I recollect what that share was-how that, instead of opposing and discouraging you, I even helped, and thought it all delightfully romantic. I was as much to blame as yourself, Claudia. I had no common-sense in those days-not an atom of common-sense—or I might have saved you. Oh, I shall never be able to forgive myself for it!"

Nonsense, Ella; you know you were only a child. You were not fifteen. No one could blame you," protested her friend. "And how good you have been to me since! How faithfully you have kept my secret! What a relief it has been to me, too, to be able to talk to you about it! Without you, I don't know how I could have borne these dreadful years."

"Then let me be of still further use to you, dear. Let me at least prevent you from getting into worse mischief and deeper trouble than ever," pleaded Ella. "I know you are older than I, but, for pity's sake, listen to me!"

"I am neither so wise nor so good as you, Ella, though I am older," protested Claudia, warmly. "Yes, I will be guided by your advice. At all hazards, I will tell Captain Awdry the truth. I promise it."

"Oh, I am so glad!" cried Ella, seizing both her companion's hands. "Only be firm now; don't let your resolution waver again. It will be like a surgical operation-painful for the moment, but when

it is over, darling, you will be free. You will feel such a sense of relief

"Or of despair," added Claudia. is his step on the stairs!

"Hush! He is here! That

"Then let me run away," said Ella, springing up. "Now, be brave, be courageous. Remember, you have promised me !"

And as a tap sounded on one door of the oblong apartment Miss Ella Thorne escaped by another situated at the opposite end.

CHAPTER VI.

THE DREADED INTERVIEW.

"CAPTAIN AWDRY."

The serving man who made this announcement having closed the drawing-room door behind him, walked off with a curious smile on his face, and his mouth contracted as though for the emission of a whistle. The occasion of his amused surprise was the fact, or rather the very natural inference which he drew from the fact, that, on glancing into the room to make sure that his young mistress was present, he had seen her rise from a sofa, upon which she had thrown herself at the moment of Miss Thorne's exit, her face suffused to the very temples with a deep blush.

The visitor whom he had introduced noticed, likewise, that telltale blush, and the joy it inspired within him was so great that for a moment it took away his power of speech and even of motion. Arrested on his way towards her, he stood gazing at the slender and beautiful girl, from whom never before had his comings or goings elicited the exhibition of such emotion as this. Taking advantage of that brief pause whilst he stands before us, hat in hand, let us snatch a hasty glance at this gentleman's face and form.

Not, however, that a hasty glance can ever suffice to give one an unerring impression of any man's or woman's face. The knowledge of a countenance must grow upon one like the knowledge of a character. Until seen in all the varying moods and tenses of the informing mind that lies behind, there are faces which will ever remain to us virtually unknown. And after having been so seen, it is in certain, not very exceptional, cases most difficult to recover our first impression of a face, because of the unlikeness of that impression to what familiarity has taught us to be the reality.

But to catalogue, so far as can be done, the salient points of